Page 15 of Sly Like a Fox (Romance Expected Dating Service #3)

Fenton

Transforming Jenna from small-time con artist to sophisticated socialite proves to be both challenging and hilariously entertaining. I’ve discovered her fox shifter instincts, while invaluable for reading people, create some unexpected complications in formal social settings.

The first challenge comes at Marcel’s, the city’s most exclusive salon, where I arranged for Jenna to receive a complete makeover.

The stylist, a rail-thin man named Antoine, who speaks in dramatic flourishes, approaches her chair with what appears to be a medieval torture device but is actually just professional scissors.

“Now, darling, we’ll start with just a trim to frame your lovely face—”

Jenna ducks sideways so quickly she nearly falls off the chair. “Sorry, reflex. Sharp objects make me nervous.”

Antoine pauses, scissors poised in midair, clearly uncertain how to proceed with a client who treats his professional tools like weapons. I intervene before the situation becomes more awkward.

“She’s had some bad experiences with hairstylists,” I say, which is probably true given her background. “Maybe start with something less...pointed?”

The session continues with Antoine announcing every movement before making it, as if he’s performing surgery on a skittish animal. By the time we leave, Jenna’s hair falls in elegant waves, but she’s visibly exhausted from three hours of forced stillness.

“I need a drink,” she announces as we walk to the car. “Preferably something strong enough to erase the memory of that man coming at my head with tiny swords.”

“We have etiquette coaching in an hour.”

Her groan is likely audible from across the parking lot.

The etiquette session takes place at the Grandview Country Club, where I’ve hired Mrs. Edith Binachi, a seventy-year-old former debutante who claims to have taught manners to three generations of society families.

She greets us in the main dining room wearing pearls and an expression broadcasting she’s personally offended by the decline of modern civilization.

“Posture is the foundation of proper presentation,” Mrs. Binachi begins, demonstrating the correct way to enter a room. “Shoulders back, chin level, with movements that are graceful and deliberate.”

Jenna attempts to mimic the pose but overshoots slightly, resulting in what looks more like a military march than elegant gliding. When a waiter approaches our table to refill water glasses, her nervous energy manifests in an awkward curtsey that leaves everyone staring.

“I’m so sorry,” she says to the confused waiter, who clearly doesn’t know how to respond to formal gestures while serving lunch. “I meant to just nod politely.”

Mrs. Binachi raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps we should focus on appropriate greetings for different social situations.”

The lesson continues with mixed results.

Jenna masters the art of polite conversation but struggles with wine etiquette, visibly fighting the urge to sniff the sommelier when he approaches our table.

I assume her fox shifter instincts want to assess his honesty through scent, which would be useful information but terrible manners.

“The key to sophisticated discourse,” Mrs. Binachi explains while Jenna practices holding a wine glass properly, “is demonstrating interest without appearing overly eager. Phrases like ‘how fascinating’ or ‘what an interesting perspective’ allow you to engage without committing to specific opinions.”

“Got it,” Jenna says, nodding seriously. “So if someone is feeding me a line, instead of saying ‘that’s sketchy as hell,’ I should say ‘how fascinating.’”

Mrs. Binachi blinks several times before responding. “Yes, dear. Exactly like that.”

The technical aspects of our training prove equally challenging. Back in my apartment that evening, I show Jenna how to plant surveillance devices in social settings. The listening device is smaller than a button and designed to be virtually undetectable once properly placed.

“The key is to make the movement look natural,” I say, demonstrating how to attach the device to the underside of a table during casual conversation. “Lean forward as if you’re interested in what someone’s saying and let your hand drop casually...”

Jenna watches and then attempts to replicate the motion. Somehow, instead of attaching the device to the practice table, she manages to get it tangled in her newly styled hair.

“How did you even…” I start and then stop to help extract the tiny piece of technology from her copper waves. “This is supposed to stick to surfaces, not hair.”

“My hair has a mind of its own,” she says, sitting still while I work to free the device without pulling her hair. “Maybe we should practice this on furniture that doesn’t fight back.”

We spend an hour on basic surveillance techniques, but her fox instincts create an unexpected problem. While I’m trying to teach her to identify security cameras and electronic surveillance equipment, she’s automatically cataloging escape routes from every room we enter.

“Focus on the camera placement,” I remind her as we practice in a hotel lobby. “Count the devices, note their coverage angles, and identify blind spots for surveillance avoidance.”

“Right, cameras.” She forces her attention to the ceiling-mounted equipment. “There’s also an emergency exit behind the concierge desk, service elevators near the restaurant, and at least three different stairwells that could be used for quick escapes.”

I sigh. “Those are useful observations, but not what we’re focusing on right now.”

“Sorry. It’s automatic. My fox brain sees a new environment and immediately maps all possible exit strategies.”

Despite the comedic mishaps, she proves to be an excellent student once she stops overthinking every social interaction as a potential con. Her natural cunning and fox shifter instincts make her particularly adept at reading people’s tells and adapting her behavior to different social situations.

During our advanced conversation practice, I watch her switch seamlessly from discussing wine pairings with an imaginary sommelier to debating the merits of modern art installations. She absorbs information quickly and applies it naturally, though she occasionally slips back into her old patterns.

“The key to successful networking,” she says, practicing her elevator pitch, “is working the room for intel—I mean, for meaningful connections and shared interests.”

“Close enough. Most high-society networking is just socially acceptable intelligence gathering anyway.”

While Jenna masters the social aspects of our mission, I focus on the technical preparation for our infiltration of Anklor’s organization.

The most crucial element involves gaining remote access to his computer systems, which requires a sophisticated phishing operation disguised as legitimate business correspondence.

I craft a financial newsletter that appears to come from Whitmore & Associates, a prestigious investment firm that Anklor has dealt with previously.

The content is entirely legitimate—real market analysis, actual economic predictions, and genuine investment advice that would be valuable to someone in Anklor’s position.

The danger lies in the PDF attachment containing the full newsletter.

Hidden within the document’s metadata is a small piece of code that will install backdoor access when Anklor opens the file.

Once activated, the software will allow me to access his computer remotely using my phone to download files and monitor communications while appearing to have a casual conversation, though I still have to be within a few feet of the computer.

“How do you know he’ll open it?” Jenna asks, watching me finalize the email.

“Because the subject line mentions municipal bond opportunities, which directly relates to his current bid-rigging schemes. He won’t be able to resist checking whether there’s information that could give him an advantage over competitors.”

She arches a copper brow. “And if he doesn’t take the bait?”

I give her a half-shrug. “Then we find another way, but this approach has the advantage of seeming completely legitimate if anyone investigates later.”

I send the email at 4:17 p.m. on a Tuesday, timing it to arrive when Anklor would typically be reviewing end-of-day financial reports. The tracking software confirms he opens it within twenty minutes, and the backdoor installation completes successfully.

“We’re in,” I tell Jenna, showing her the confirmation on my secure phone. “Now we have access to his computer whenever we can get within range of his network.”

“How close do we need to be?”

“Same building, ideally same floor. Best and quickest is the same room, which means we need to get invited to his private office or attend an event at his penthouse.”

“That sounds sketchy as hell.” She frowns before speaking in a more cultured tone. “I mean, how fascinating.”

Our first real test comes three weeks later at a smaller charity event benefiting the city’s historical preservation society. Anklor’s associates would be comfortable at this gathering, and it’s intimate enough that we can practice our cover story without the pressure of a major social event.

I’ve purchased a table for eight, inviting three other couples who represent successful professionals with whom we want to be associated.

Dr. Sherry Chase and her husband, Terrance, who owns several restaurants, Judge Candice Morrison and her wife, Katherine, a prominent attorney, and Robert and Lisa Valdez, who run a successful architectural firm.

These people move in the same social circles as our targets, but they’re legitimate professionals rather than criminals. They provide perfect cover for our debut as a couple worth Anklor’s attention.

“Remember,” I tell Jenna as we walk into the hotel ballroom, “We’ve been dating for six months, met through Red’s service, and we’re exclusive but taking things slowly.”